


Keep on speaking

by GwenChan



Category: Welcome to Night Vale
Genre: Gen, Implied Murder, Revolution, radio talking
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-08-09
Updated: 2014-08-09
Packaged: 2018-02-12 10:49:22
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,242
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2106978
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/GwenChan/pseuds/GwenChan
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Cecil is the Voice of Night Vale. He is not an hero. The only thing he is really good at is speaking, so he speaks.<br/>After all, there are plenty of ways to be part of the Revolution.<br/>Set between "Renovations" and "Old Oak Door part A".</p>
            </blockquote>





	Keep on speaking

Cecil speaks. He speaks in the complete, utterly silence of a Radio Station where he has remained alone - except for Khoshekh and the kittens that were so... so relieved when they saw him, in the peculiar way a floating bunch of venomous kittens can be.

After all, he is the Voice of Night Vale. And that is not just a pompous way to indicate a radio host. He is really the Voice, with a capital V. He is born that way. Not that he was aware of it from the beginning, of course. This is way he had become a radio host. The radio host. It was meant to be.

Plain and simply terrifying. 

He speaks to, for the city and he has a peculiar, inexplicable symbiosis with her, like he is draining energies from all Night Vale and Night Vale is doing exactly the same with him and... Well... One day he will die from this process. Only from this process, because the city is generous in a strange way and she protects him, as a prize, from all the dangers she is filled with. 

Cecil wears on the ears the big, purple headphones he always uses at work, in front of him the old mic crackles with static, the third eye on his forehead - a metaphorical one, a literal one, whatever one prefers - is more open than ever and Cecil speaks.

He speaks for the Night Vale imprisoned by the Volleyball nets... No, by the highly electrified fences of the terrible Company Picnic. It was so colorful, so bright and so bloody all together. The lights were always, always on and they never, ever, had the soothing relief of a spot of darkness. It was the 15th of the month, it was the day of his broadcasting and Cecil fell on the ground, sitting heavily with his legs crossed, as he was hit by a lighting struck of understanding. He sat, realizing that for the first time in all his career, he missed his duty as a radio host. However, when the seemingly never-ending working day was over, all Nigh Vale did gather around him, pretending their radio show. He felt happy, in the Night Vale style, for a single moment.

Not as happy as when Carlos kissed him for the first time. As happy as the time the City Council finally allowed people to pay taxes in money and stop pretending liver donations instead. 

To be honest, he does not think that listening to the radio would be among the allowed and highly productive activities at the Company Picnic. Not anymore, at least. Surely it was when at the console, his console, sat them. God only knows how long it took him to clean all the blood and teeth and gutters. He buried all that mess in a spot of sand behind the radio station, near the interns cemetery. After all, he liked the Seans.

Probably StrexCorp still broadcasts Kevin and Lauren's speeches wherever those two hide.

Cecil speaks for the Nigh Vale no one is allowed to know. He speaks for the Hooded Figures, roaming down the streets, mysterious and unclassified in a binary which considers only Good and Evil.

He speaks for the Glow Cloud, blown away by the south wind, strong of an existence without any constriction. He speaks for her, to her and, as always, he worships her.

Cecil speaks for the mysterious Man in a Tan Jacket and also for the tiny people under the pin of Lane 5 at the Flower Bowling Alley and Arcade Fun Complex, because even if they are enemies, threatened his boyfriend and killed a man - a racist embarrassment, but a man - they still belong in Nigh Vale more than any Desert Bluffs' citizen could ever be.

Cecil speaks. He never stops, maybe except for a quick sip of coffee or water to keep his throat wet and his voice strong. Day after day he starts to feel hungry or tired. The radio job takes time from sleeping, but he cannot stay silent. Not anymore. He is the Voice of Night Vale. He is the one that wakes up the city and the one that, tenderly, put her to sleep. He is the Voice of hope.

Cecil speaks for the courageous Tamika Flynn, imprisoned in a tiny cell. Sometimes he wonders - his wondering has the taste of a prayer - if the ... the human being has at least a book to make her night less lonely. Tamika Flynn is brave and strong. She will survive. She was only twelve when she defeated the librarians. 

Cecil speaks also for them.

He speaks for little Janice, remembering her shy smile, the one when she bites her lips and show only the incisive, and for the Girl Scouts. He imagines them gathered in circle, under the cold desert night sky, with their chests covered in badges and their hands ready to fight. 

Cecil speaks for Dana and Maureen, marching at the head of an army of giant men and women, while a freezing light swallows everything and reveals their essence behind them. 

He speaks for Old woman Josie and for her extremely tall angels - or, you know, not angels. He still prefers to negate their existence because he cares for his life. 

Cecil speaks hour after hour, day after day. The wrist watch keeps time. It is the only true time keeper in all Night Vale after all. It does what a clock, a real one, is supposed to do.

The knocks on the door, this time barricaded properly, are becoming more and more violent, but the door resists

. He speaks for Hiram, for all his five heads, and for the Faceless Old Woman. He rocks them and reassures them. He remembers them that the new Mayor is chosen by interpreting the pulsing lights in Hidden Gorge, so ... please let's stop all the political campaigns, the promises we all know one cannot keep and the bashing at each other. It is useless and immature.

He speaks for Khoshekh and his kittens. Lately he speaks mostly with Khoshekh, to the point he has to admit the cat is a wonderful listener.

He speaks for the City Council, for the old and terrifying Station Management, for the Whispering Forest, even though it was cut down, for the Pyramid, for the Browstone spire - really, he'd better hope that it likes what he is saying - for the Shape in Grove Park that no one is allowed to recognize or speak about. Cecil bites his lips so fiercely that they bleed when he realizes this, but then... hey, he is still alive, so he keeps on speaking. He speaks for John Peter - you know the farmer, for the Seans. Even for Steve Calsberg. For every creature in Night Vale. For the soil, for the sky. 

He speaks for Night Vale, of Night Vale, with Night Vale. 

Finally Cecil speaks for Carlos - not of, but for - adorable perfectly imperfect Carlos, trapped in a house that does not exist, like lot of other things in the city, with his perfect black hair, so messy at the morning.

Really, he would easily rant an entire day on every subject concerning Carlos. Luckily he is free from StrexCorp hands.

For Cecil, this is enough. 

The prude moon shows half of her face. Above Arby's the lights pass. Cecil tells his "goodnight, Night Vale, goodnight" to the city, then he starts speaking again.

**Author's Note:**

> First Night Vale fic and I'm not an english native speaker, so any corrections is more than welcomed.  
> I consider the city as a living being, so I used the pronoun "she".


End file.
